


Just For One Day

by playitagainsam



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Lost in Translation AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:13:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2666540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playitagainsam/pseuds/playitagainsam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>After a few minutes, she decides to speak.</i>
</p>
<p>  <i>“Listen, Doctor – “</i></p>
<p>  <i>He sets down his glass and tries his best to look at anywhere but her. “Yes?”</i></p>
<p>  <i>She blushes. “Thank you,” she manages to say. This time, he stops trying.</i></p>
<p>  <i>“For?”</i></p>
<p>  <i>“For taking me here.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Just For One Day

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking of doing a Twelve/Clara fic based on _Lost In Translation_ for some time now. There's something about that film that suits them so well, and it's not just the age gap. I guess it's the themes of loneliness, miscommunication, feeling lost, and longing for someone who understands you. If that doesn't sound like The Doctor and Clara, I don't know what does.
> 
> This story is how I imagine their farewell will be like, maybe after a few more years spent traveling together. Once again, thank you to the lovely [theyhadcookies](http://archiveofourown.org/users/theyhadcookies/profile) for beta-ing this.

She wakes, opens her eyes slowly. The lamp on the bedside table casts a dim yellow light in the corner of the room. From the gap between the closed curtains she can see twinkling lights of different colors, reds and blues and greens and whites against the black backdrop of night. She stretches, clad in knickers and a jumper, and shifts to face the other side of the bed. She’s alone.

He’s sitting at the hotel bar, a tumbler in his hand, swirling its contents absentmindedly. The lounge singer is standing in front of a mini grand piano, crooning one of those old favorites. Behind her, the high windows show a circuit board of glittering lights above and below, the skyline of Tokyo II mapped out on the insides of the cylindrical space station. It doesn’t seem to interest him. 

The elevator doors open at the other side of the room and she steps out, still in her jumper but now with her skirt from last night. He fights a small smile forming in the corner of his lips.

She seats herself a stool away from him, her feet dangling high up above the floor. She asks the bartender for a drink – “Same as his, please,” – and settles herself against the counter. She glances around at the dark interiors of the lounge before she finally looks at him.

“Hi,” she says softly. He doesn’t look at her and keeps swirling his glass.

“Didn’t think you’d be up ‘til morning,” he says apologetically. He runs a hand through the unkempt silver curls on his head and takes a drink.

“It’s alright,” she replies, tucking strands of her own brown hair behind her ear. The bartender hands her a tumbler half-filled with amber liquid. She brings the rim to her nose, takes a sniff, brings it to her lips and takes a sip. She nearly chokes.

“What on earth is this?” she asks, sputtering. He laughs a low, soft laugh, and holds up his glass.

“ _’For relaxing times, make it Suntory Time,’_ ” he says, cocking an eyebrow. “Also, may I remind you that we’re not on earth anymore.”

She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “You men and your whisky. And yes, I know.”

They sit in silence, neither of them looking at the other. The singer is crooning another song, and guests continue to come and go. She grips her tumbler in her hands, staring into the nearly untouched whisky. He swirls his, listening to the stones clinking against each other, and takes sips in intervals.

After a few minutes, she decides to speak.

“Listen, Doctor – “

He sets down his glass and tries his best to look at anywhere but her. “Yes?”

She blushes. “Thank you,” she manages to say. This time, he stops trying.

“For?”

“For taking me here.”

He looks at her, really looks at her. There are faint lines below her eyes and around the corners of her lips. The veins on the back of her hands are slightly raised. She still looks the same, but she also doesn’t. Still young, but not so young anymore.

“My pleasure,” he replies. She smiles that sly, knowing smile that he’s come to know so well over time.

“I’m sure,” she quips, and there she is. Still that Impossible Girl. He scowls, but she knows. His way of blushing, maybe. She laughs.

“So, where are we off to now?” she asks brightly. His scowl is now one of confusion.

“Now? I thought you needed to rest.”

“Well, I’m up. Besides, Doctor,” she gestures to the window, out towards the bright city lights. “Who sleeps in Tokyo?”

 

They go to a traditional ramen bar, the chef behind the counter bowing as they enter and seat themselves. She slurps her noodles happily, hitting his arm as he frowns and sniffs the broth (“That’s rude!” she hisses). They go to a sushi place a century more advanced than the ones she’s seen on television, where the sushi is made by humanoid robots and distributed by mini robots on conveyor belts that stretch up and down and across the walls. They go to a late night theater, watch a Noh and Kyogen play acted out by holograms of actors long gone. They go to Neo Shibuya Crossing, walk among the crowds across white lines, neon lights suspended above and below and around them from all sides of the city. Her eyes are twinkling, and he smiles.

“I know where I want to go next,” she says.

“Oh? Where to?”

She smiles that sly smile again.

 

The next thing he knows, he’s being shoved down a zebra-print painted corridor. The waitresses in the bar are all wearing colored wigs, the rooms filled with smoke and the smell of beer and other liquor. From within them, synth music and voices singing out of tune.

“No,” he says, horrified. “No no no no no –“

“Yes,” she taunts, laughing. She’s wearing a pink bobbed wig that she’s borrowed from a waitress. She pushes him into an empty room, grabs his sonic screwdriver from his coat pocket and locks the door behind them before he can escape. He sits down on the couch and covers his face in his hands.

“Let me out, Clara,” he groans. She just laughs and presses a few buttons on the controls on the wall. The blue screen of a holographic television materializes in the middle of the room.

“Nope. You’re staying right – “ she takes a microphone from a stand. “ – here.”

He keeps his face buried in his hands and groans as the synth music starts to play. It still sounds as horrible as it did in the 21st century. The words begin to scroll across the screen and she starts to sing.

“ _You were workin’ as a waitress in a cocktail bar, when I met you…_ ”

He moans and moans, shaking his head in disbelief. “Why, Clara, why?”

“ _I picked you out, I shook you up, and turned you around, turned you into someone new…_ ”

She starts to move her shoulders and feet, sways her hips. He peeks between his fingers and sees to his horror that she’s dancing. She does a strange little shuffle, moving her shoulders up and down flirtatiously, bobbing and swaying her head making the pink strands of the wig fly around about her face.

“ _It's much too late to find, you think you've changed your mind, you'd better change it back, or we will both be sorry…_ ”

She points at him while swaying her hips.

“ _Don’t you want me, baby? Don’t you want me, ooohhh…_ ”

She moves closer to him, grinning, and puts the microphone below his mouth. He purses his lips and crosses his arms.

“Oh come off it, Doctor!” she says giddily, her face flushed. “You know you want to.”

She’s teasing him, and he only shakes his head vigorously.

“No. Never,” he says stubbornly. She frowns for a split second, then the grin returns and she shrugs, bringing the microphone back before her mouth.

“ _I was workin’ as a waitress in a cocktail bar, that much is true…_ ”

Her eyes widen as she sees the next lyrics flash on the screen. He freezes when he realizes what comes next.

“ _The five years we have had have been such good times, I still love you…_ ”

Her voice falters slightly.

“ _But now I think it’s time I live my life on my own, I guess it’s just what I must do…_ ”

There’s a small smile on her face, a sad smile. The kind he used to describe as a malfunction. He looks away, lips pursed into a thin line.

“ _Don't, don't you want me? You know I don't believe you when you say that you don't need me…_ ”

Her face brightens again, and she continues to dance her funny dance, bright pink strands of artificial hair flying.

“ _Don’t you want me, baby? Don’t you want me, ooohhh…_ ”

The music soon fades out. She’s still smiling, bright and cheery, and it reverts to the sly one as she hands him the microphone.

“Your turn,” she says. He shakes his head and keeps his arms crossed. She pouts, her eyes growing larger by the second, putting her best _please-oh-please_ face. 

“For me?” she pleads. He looks at her and scowls, taking the microphone.

“You don’t play fair, Clara Oswald,” he says. She knows just how to get to him. She grins wickedly and walks over to the controls.

“Pick a song, Doctor,” she says, and winks.

He picks a song (“Bowie, how typical,” she remarks), and she hits his arm as he sings in a continuous monotone. But he’s teasing, and he seems to be enjoying it, smirking as he sings. She laughs anyway, sits back and listens to him.

“ _We could steal time, just for one day…_ ”

She smiles again, that sad smile. He looks back at her, mirroring the look on her face.

 

They go back to the hotel, walking in silence. She looks down at her feet, he looks up at the buildings suspended above. They pass through an old park that they visited earlier that day, past a shrine, past a garden of rocks. Cherry blossom trees surround them, their pink flowers covered by shadows in the dark. Somewhere within a temple, incense is burning. The hotel looms into view.

She looks up at him, holds out her hand. He sees it, and he takes it.

They reach their hotel room, and they shed their coats and hang them by the door. She curls up on her side of the bed. He lies down beside her.

“Good night, Doctor,” she murmurs.

“Good night, Clara,” he responds softly. Minutes later, and she is asleep. He watches her, her lips half opened, her chest rising and falling as she breathes. He reaches out hesitantly, letting his fingers brush the curve of her foot.

He stays awake the rest of the night, staring at the ceiling.

 

In the morning, they board the TARDIS and he takes her home. She wanders the upper corridor, touching the blackboard covered in scribbles and formulae, running her hands across the spines of old books lining the shelves. She seats herself in his armchair, hands gripping the armrests firmly. It smells like him, smells of bergamot and vetiver and leather. She watches him as he pulls levers and presses buttons down at the console, flashing the red lining of his coat as he moves.

The TARDIS lands. “We’re here,” he says, opening the door. It’s nearly dusk outside, the city lights flickering into life. People are walking up and down the sidewalk, shopping bags and coffee cups and baby carriage handles in their hands, minding their own business as the day begins to draw to a close. She takes her time, and steps out slowly. She turns around and looks at him as he stands at the doorway. Her smile is tight, her eyes are glassy.

“I’ll be on my way, then,” she says. He looks at her for a moment, and nods. 

“Yes,” he replies, “Yes, I suppose so.”

She struggles to keep her smile, placing a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Be seeing you, Doctor.”

She steps away and walks down the sidewalk, past other pedestrians who, like her, are on their way home. He watches her back, her brown hair and her coat growing smaller and smaller as the distance between them grows and grows.

It takes him two and a half minutes before he starts walking. 

“Clara,” he says her name, his voice low and even as he reaches her. She stops and turns, and her smile is a lot of things all at once. Happy, sad, excited, afraid.

They look at each other. And they can see.

He opens his arms and takes her into them, holding her close against his chest. He leans in, his face pressed into her hair, his mouth by her ear.

He whispers something only she can hear. And she nods. She nods, and says, “Me too.”

They release each other slowly, and she’s smiling. He’s smiling, the same smile when he first said, “If you want to be.” He reaches down and kisses her. It seems to last forever.

When they part, he puts his hands into his pockets, walking backwards as he retreats.

“Bye,” he calls out to her. 

“Bye,” she calls out back.

She watches him get into the TARDIS, and the blue box disappears into thin air. Her smile is still there, still a lot of things all at once. With a turn of her heel, she walks away.

 

************

 

 


End file.
